


Is It Enough to Have Some Love

by nightrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-17
Updated: 2009-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After, Dean lives only for the days there is hazel in his brother’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It Enough to Have Some Love

_**Is It Enough to Have Some Love**_  
 **Title:** Is It Enough to Have Some Love  
 **Author:** [](http://nightrose-spn.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightrose_spn**](http://nightrose-spn.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairings:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Word Count:** 1624  
 **Summary:** After, Dean lives only for the days there is hazel in his brother’s eyes.  
 **Notes/Warnings:** Evil!Sam, mentions of dub-con bordering on non-con, wincest, violence, general angst. Yes, I wrote apocafic. –is ashamed- But please review anyway! First person to name what the title’s from wins an awesome point and virtual cookies!

The words are only ever whispered, and even then only in the silken silence of their bed. He is grateful for that. He doesn’t know if he could bear it any other time, if he could stand a more constant reminder of everything he’s lost. Chained to the throne carved of human bones, he rejoices that he doesn’t have to hear the words he longs for more than anything else—certainly more than freedom.  
It’s always at the end of the day, after he’s been led to the palace where the walls are painted in blood. Black fades to green-gold and it’s always the same, on those lucky days. He wishes, aches with wishing, that it could be the two of them, peaceful, talking hand in hand. But he’ll take what he can get. There is a silent urgency and desperation in these times, a need to reassure themselves that they get even this.  
Arms wrap around his waist, pull him up into the firm chest, and lay him out across the soft mattress of the vast canopied bed. The fingers that split him open are slick and slow, one at a time entering him, a gut-twisting contrast to the usual brutality. He is laid on his back so he can’t look away from the too-familiar smile. He knows that face is putting on a show, trying to seem happy for his benefit, because he can see the agony in the hazel eyes. He’d do anything, kill, die, to take that pain away. He’d tolerate a thousand beatings and rapes and even the stinging adoration of this tender lovemaking.  
Lips press on his neck, his collarbone, his chin. Fingertips trace the muscles of his chest and arms, and then the words that tear him apart. “I love you.” It’s all he ever hears when it’s like this. The rest of the time, there’s “I want you” and “I need you” and “I own you.” That’s all true, but none of it hurts like the gentle oaths of undying love.  
“So much, so much. Please. Please don’t leave. I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”  
And his response is a name. When the eyes are black, he calls this body “Master” or “Sir” or “My Lord,” sometimes a curt “Sam” if he’s cruising for a bruising. But when he stares into green-gold eyes full of confusion and hurt and love, all he can do is helplessly whisper, “Sammy, Sammy.” It’s not a return of “I love you,” it’s not a promise to stay forever, it’s not absolution—but they both know it means the same thing.  
After, tears hit his shoulder, soft sobs muffled into his neck. They kiss lazy and slow, and “I love you, I love you,” vibrates against his lips. He traces the body behind him with cautious, adoring fingertips and swears he’ll never, ever leave. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he knows he’ll stay, no matter what.  
When the tears stop, he rolls over. He doesn’t know why he feels the need for tormenting himself with watching, but he can’t help it. It’s like a magnet pulls him into watching. Long eyelashes go down to blink away the moisture, and open into blackness. He bows his head, then, leaves the comfort of the gentle arms, crawls to the mat at the foot of his bed, and goes to the sleep. Dreams of the world ending in blood in fire only come on those nights, when he doesn’t have bruises and wounds to pull him into a sound sleep. When the morning comes, he can’t feel any soreness at all from the lovemaking last night, only the ghost of the kisses. He kneels by the bed and waits for black eyes to flit over to him, hungry, and the rasp of a familiar voice ordering him to (it doesn’t matter what.)  
The hazel-eyed days are getting closer and closer together. The times between are painful, and he doesn’t mean his emotional angst. Demons are possessive and sadistic, and most nights, he’s covered with bruises and cuts. The handprint on his shoulder is gone, replaced by a mark sliced deeply into his skin. It was carved away quite neatly. The knife that did it, the favorite, sits on a shelf, a toy as pretty and prized as he is.  
It’s still stained with his blood.  
He has a whole new collection of scars now. Most are shapeless marks, like the whip marks on his back or the cane slashes on his thighs, but the word “Mine” is written deliberately on his stomach. He screamed the day that was carved, just like he did the first time he was fucked, hard and suddenly without any preparation, only the width of the body splitting him open. He still feels the scars inside sometimes, from where he’d bled that day. That’s the only lube he gets most of the time, unless he’s been especially good and earned some kind of reward.  
Sometimes he wants to run, but the whole world is owned just as surely as he is. And he hates himself for it, that there are days when impossibility is the only thing that stops him. Even the thought makes him burn to the bone with the knowledge that he deserves the next set of blows. He’d stay anyway. The palace could be the only part of the whole world that is controlled, but he’d still stay in it. For those days when the black fades away, and love shines out instead—he’d suffer every instant, for the last vestiges of his love trapped in that body, because he’s the only thing holding any goodness in there.  
There are days when he provokes the demon. Pain is better than the aching knowledge that this is all of the good things, all of his life, all of love that remains for him. Pinned to his thin mattress with his body broken and bloody, he can’t hope that one day he’ll get his everything back. He has slices from that favorite knife and whip makrs on his back and it hurts, the whole world stings with agony, and that means he can’t see the black eyes in the face he loves so much, as the room spins around him because of the bloodloss. He can’t hear the cold, cruel laugh ringing around him. He releases into pain, a constant of his life for so long, and not remember that everything else has changed.  
No. Everything else but one. He still loves, hopelessly and desperately and more than anything, that misguided child trapped somewhere inside the new-crowned King of Hell. He would do anything to protect him. He would do anything to get him back. He will never stop trying to save that child, because his father was right. The only alternative is to kill him and he’ll never be able to do that. How can he, when he loves like this?  
The world would be a better place, if he killed the body that his brother used to live in. Humans would be happier, everyone would be safer, but he knows he can’t do it. How can he? That boy has been everything to him for his entire life. Just because there’s an apocalypse standing between them, because he’s a slave now more than a lover, because he’s used and hurt more often than he’s comforted and treasured—that doesn’t erase the simple fact.  
Take Sammy and run.  
It’s more complicated, because what he’s taking from is the body Sammy used to live in. It’s more coaxing-out than grabbing and running, but he’ll do it nonetheless. All the forces of heaven and hell can and have stood between them, but he doesn’t care. Nothing, nothing will stop him. Not hate, not war, not the end of the world, not demons, not angels, not God Almighty, not the King of Hell’s will, not his own pain. Nothing.  
He makes it through. When fingers tangle in his hair, stroking him like a treasured pet as he’s on his knees at the foot of the throne, he pretends it’s a lover’s caress. When he is raped, split open brutally and carelessly with nothing more than an occasional gob of spit between their two bodies, he pretends it’s just the one he loves playing a little rough. But one thing gets him through, one thing he has to keep close and precious.  
There are always those days when the demon’s eyes fade and he sees what he wants most in the world. (Even on the other days, he has the memory to help him survive.) He has the words, “I love you.” He’ll do anything, anything, because those times are getting less and less distant, and someday, maybe, they’ll be the reality and not the dream. Maybe Sammy will stay with him someday. Maybe he’ll get what he wants and needs so desperately.  
He knows it’s stupid to keep hoping for that. He never has before.  
He curls up into a ball, ignoring the stiffness and soreness from his many healing bruises, and listens to the steady sound of breathing from the bed echo in the hole in his heart.


End file.
